Heart of the Exiled Page 2

Vashakh had come to Nightsand not long since to beg for a kobalen with which to feed her family, theirs having died. Shalár had given another to her in exchange for twenty years of service from the young daughter she had brought with her. Vashakh still resented that demand, though she had agreed to it, knowing it to be the best choice both for Mehir and for their daughter, who would have many more advantages in Nightsand than on Small Sleeper Farm.

  Shalár did not fault Vashakh’s feelings. Indeed, she felt only respect for the farmer. To have borne a child and survived was a high achievement, one Shalár envied and wanted for herself.

  Footfalls outside drew her notice, a light tread accompanied by a heavier shuffling. Shalár raised her head and scented the pungent odor of kobalen. It was not the one belonging to the farmers; they kept that in a small stone shed a little distance from the house, and Vashakh harvested blood from it there. This was one of the catch that Shalár and her hunters had recently made, one of the hundred kobalen she had brought with her to the farm.

  The door of the house opened. Vashakh and Mehir flinched away from the sunlight, though it was gone again in a moment as Yaras hastened in, prodding a female kobalen before him. The kobalen’s face was slack, its eyes unseeing. Yaras had it firmly controlled. He shut the door, pushed back his leather hood, and unwrapped the protective cloth from his face.

  “Bright Lady. I came as quickly as I could.”

  Shalár nodded. Yaras’s brows drew together in concentration as he turned his attention to the kobalen. It shuffled toward where Shalár stood, and Yaras followed.

  Mehir’s eyes sharpened as they passed, but he said nothing. Shalár stood aside for Yaras to bring the creature into her room, then lowered the curtain over the doorway.

  Kobalen were smaller than her people, and stockier. Blessed with the ability to breed as soon as look at one another, they also aged and died rapidly, a fact to which their slightness of intelligence was generally attributed. They had enough wit, though, to have devised a simple language and to use primitive tools, primarily weapons. It was the kobalen who had taught the ælven the meaning of war.

  More important than any of that was their khi. Save that of the ælven, kobalen had the strongest khi of any living creature. It was this that made them of value, made them worth hunting and keeping despite their repulsiveness.

  Nostrils pinching at the creature’s strong odor of earth, sweat, and sharp fear, Shalár walked slowly around it. It looked mature yet strong. Covered all over with fine, dark hair, it was graceless, with clumsy hands and heavy feet.

  Shalár glanced at Yaras, who stood impassive, waiting for her command. She had shared a kobalen with him once before, at the conclusion of the last Grand Hunt. They had coupled as she made Yaras yield to her his memories of his own child’s conception. She thought her flesh had come close to opening to Yaras then, close to conceiving the child she wanted. It had brought her a better understanding of the mystery. She hoped to use the knowledge to her advantage, though so far she had not succeeded.

  Time, then, to remind herself. Yaras would yield to her again, in flesh and in mind.

  As if he sensed her thought, he looked up at her suddenly. She saw the muscles of his throat move in a swallow.

  “Bright Lady, I have a boon to ask.”

  “Oh?”

  “I saw Islir in Nightsand while we were gathering the army.”

  “Oh?”

  Shalár felt a twinge of anger but hid it. Islir was the mother of Yaras’s daughter. She had declined to hunt again, preferring to stay at home on her own farm, where she grew flax and cordweed and watched over their daughter.

  “We have decided to handfast.”

  Shalár frowned. “That is an ælven custom. We have left all such behind us.”

  Yaras’s lips tightened briefly. Though his expression remained neutral, she could see a hint of dismay in his eyes.

  “Some customs have merit.”

  “That one puts us at a disadvantage, however. A variety of partners improves the chance of conception.”

  “But partners who have conceived once may likely do so again.” She sensed the anxiety in his khi flare more strongly.

  “Perhaps.”

  Yaras looked at her, his eyes pleading as he whispered. “Bright Lady, I would ask your blessing.”

  “My blessing for a practice I do not condone?”

  He was silent, his brow creased. Shalár resumed her slow pacing, circling Yaras now instead of the kobalen. He stood still, not meeting her gaze as she looked over the clean, strong lines of his flesh, remembering their feel, their taste. His hair was as white as her own, as white as any of her people’s. His eyes stared at nothing, and the color in his cheeks grew brighter.

  A small shifting sound diverted Shalár’s attention to the kobalen. Only a tiny movement of its feet, but it should not have been capable of that. Yaras had let his guard drop.

  Shalár sent a stab of khi toward the creature, seizing control of it herself. It let out a sharp whimper and its eyes grew wide, but it did not move again. She turned to Yaras, holding back her annoyance.

  “You cannot handfast. You have no ribbons.”

  Handfasting ribbons were made with magecraft, woven especially for the couple, with blessings and symbols of personal meaning. Magecraft, however, was one of the many talents lost to Clan Darkshore. No mages had survived their flight from Fireshore, nor had any with talent been born to the clan since.

  Yaras’s eyes closed briefly. “We will do without. A pledge is a pledge.”

  Shalár was displeased but forbore to express her annoyance. The hunger was partly to blame for her mood. She stepped up to the kobalen, drawing the hunting knife she wore at her hip, and made a neat slice on either side of its neck. The hot tang of blood, rich with khi, filled her nostrils.

  “You are not pledged yet.” She wiped her knife and restored it to its sheath. “Feed with me.”

  Yaras hesitated. Her patience at an end, Shalár wrapped a warning pulse of khi around him, a shadowed demonstration of her strength. At the same time she drew a little of his khi to herself. His cheeks paled, and he moved toward the kobalen without further resistance. Having one’s khi fed upon was not a pleasant sensation.

  Shalár hid a small smile as she set her mouth to the creature’s throat. The hot sting of khi on her tongue made her forget all else.

  She had not realized how tightly her stomach was clenched until it relaxed as the flood of warmth entered it. She drank deeply, conscious at first only of the heady richness of khi flowing through her, restoring her full strength, making her feel alive. It tingled through her flesh, to her fingertips and every part of her.

  She became aware of Yaras, very close, feeding on the kobalen’s other side. She reached up a hand and stroked his head, letting warm khi flow around him, gentle now. Memories of their coupling at the hunt flashed into her thought. As their khi began to blend, she felt the shadow of trouble in his mind fall back before rising arousal.

  The kobalen sagged, its legs no longer capable of supporting it. Sated, Shalár drew back, her lips wet and sticky. Yaras raised his head and looked at her, eyes glowing in the rising light of dawn that slid in around the edges of the window curtain.

  “Give it to the farmers. Then come back.”

  Yaras took hold of the kobalen, both its khi and its flesh, and started it stumbling toward the main room. Shalár held back the curtain and watched while he dropped the creature at the farmers’ feet. Mehir fell upon it at once. Vashakh glanced up, need and resentment warring in her eyes, then bent to join her partner.

  Yaras stood looking down for a moment, watching them feed. Shalár wondered if he would dare to defy her, but he returned. She let the curtain fall behind him.

  She felt a sudden pang of sorrow, remembering Dareth. He had done his best to fulfill her wishes, though they had not been favored with a child. One of the original survivors from Fireshore, Dareth had understood her goals better than anyone. Her people showed
her respect, gave her obedience, but she doubted that any but Dareth loved her.

  Realizing that she was staring at the floor, she glanced up to find Yaras watching her. As their gazes met, his expression of curiosity fell blank, then a flicker of wariness crossed his face.

  “Come here.”

  He obeyed, saying nothing as he came to stand before her. His face showed resignation. Was it such a dreadful prospect, then, coupling with her? There were others who would not see it so, she thought, remembering Ciris’s jealousy when she had chosen Yaras for this command.

  She put her hands on Yaras’s shoulders and leaned her brow against his chest, fighting a desire to weep. That she could not afford to do. After a moment his arms came up to hold her gently, bringing her even closer to tears.

  “I want a child.”

  “I know.”

  Her hands clenched at his shoulders through the leather armor. She doubted he could feel it much, but his arms tightened around her all the same.

  “Help me. You know how it happens.”

  “I have told you all I know.”

  “Tell me again.”

  She felt him draw a breath and let it out slowly, and then a sudden soft glow filled her awareness, as if a door had opened to a room lit with torchlight. Yaras had opened himself, yielding his soul to her as freely as Dareth had ever done. Surprised, Shalár felt a tear drip along her nose and fall away.

  Memories washed over her, fragmented and filled with a jumble of feelings: passion, weariness after hunting, relief at having escaped injury, the flush of strength from feeding, and joy—sheer joy in touching each other as closely as two could touch. The last was quickly followed by amazement as Islir’s flesh opened suddenly, swallowing Yaras more deeply, trapping him in an unfamiliar and unbreakable grip as the throes of passion sent them both into helpless frenzy. Then something Shalár had not recalled—a quiet, ecstatic peacefulness as they lay locked together in the deep embrace of conception, hearing the greeting of their child.

  Shalár swallowed, aching to experience it herself. She could feel the heat in her loins, roused by Yaras’s vivid memories. She pressed herself against him and felt the readiness of his flesh. With a gasp that was dangerously near a sob, she pushed away from him and began stripping off her tunic and legs.

  Yaras silently removed his leathers and the clothing he wore beneath. Shalár took his hand and pulled him to the bed. His skin was slightly damp, cool to the touch. She ran her hands over him, then lay back and spread her legs, gaze fixed on his face, silently commanding him to come to her.

  He did, holding her gaze as he leaned forward to enter her. There was no love in his eyes, but there was understanding. Shalár shuddered and wrapped her legs around him, wanting to swallow him completely.

  His hands moved to her shoulders and gripped them. He moved gently, pressing slowly against her inner self, frowning now in concentration. She closed her eyes and wordlessly demanded the memories again.

  He obliged, but the recollections were confused now by the sensation of their present coupling. It was Islir’s memories she needed, memories of how it felt to open the knot of inner flesh that was normally furled as tight as a new-budded flower. She swallowed, trying to center herself in that tiny portion of her flesh, willing her body to yield.

  He moved faster now, stabbing at her as his recollections swept him into heightened passion. Shalár thrust back, wanting him to batter her open.

  With a stifled cry he spilled himself into her. Shalár felt her own flesh spasm in response, a delicious sensation but not what she had wanted. Angry, she dug her fingernails into his back and beat herself against him until they were both spent and slowly fell still.

  “I am sorry.”

  His voice was a hoarse whisper. She felt a hint of bitterness wash through his khi.

  “It is not your failure. You did your best.”

  She ran a hand through his hair and clasped her arms about him lightly, relaxing. She felt the warm ooze of his seed sliding out of her as he softened. Gone to waste.

  Never mind. They would try again.

  “You gave him what?!”

  Turisan watched his father’s face, usually serene, take on an expression of outrage. He caught himself reaching defensively toward his right arm, where a tiny cut lay bandaged beneath the sleeve, and lowered his hand again.

  “Only a small amount.”

  Jharan stood abruptly from his chair at the center of the curved council table. Rich tapestries depicting Southfæld’s history softened the walls behind him, but his mood was far from soft. He was so angry that spots of red flew high in his fair cheeks.

  The other councillors stirred uneasily. Turisan saw Lady Pashani and Lord Berephan exchange a glance and wondered whether he should have waited until he and Jharan were alone before explaining what he had done. He had thought what he had learned from the traitor Kelevon too important to wait, though, and the news should certainly be shared with all the Ælven Council.

  Jharan frowned. “How could you think of doing such a thing? Violating your own flesh—”

  “He was suffering.” Turisan kept his voice calm. “It gained us answers. No one else has had a word out of him. Forgive me, Lord Berephan, but is that not true?”

  Berephan, who as commander of the city’s guardians had been given the unpleasant task of keeping watch over Kelevon, nodded. “True enough.”

  Turisan looked at his father. “Will you hear what I have learned?”

  Governor Jharan stood silent for a moment, his breathing short and sharp beneath his formal robe of sage embroidered with silver. At last he resumed his seat.

  “Very well. Tell us.”

  Turisan looked around the table at the councillors, governors of all the ælven realms or their representatives except Fireshore, which had not answered Jharan’s summons to Council. Even now Turisan’s lady, Eliani, was riding to that northernmost realm to try to contact its governor.

  “I think Lord Ehranan’s surmise is correct.” Turisan nodded to the warrior from Eastfæld who had been named commander of the gathering ælven army. “I think the alben’s curse is indeed a sickness. Kelevon acquired it—the hunger, he called it—while being held by the alben. He was with our first envoy to Fireshore when they were all captured.”

  He paused, glancing at Pashani. As governor of the Steppe Wilds, she was the head of Kelevon’s clan. Her sun-bronzed hair, swept back from her face by a silver circlet of state, curled every bit as wildly as Kelevon’s. Turisan wondered if she held any sympathy for her former citizen. He could see none in her face.

  Jharan’s frown became thoughtful. “So that is what became of them. My invitation never reached Fireshore.”

  “No, it fell into the hands of the alben leader, and it was she who wrote the false reply that Kelevon brought to us. Shalár, he called her, though he said her folk call her the Bright Lady.”

  “Shalár? That is no proper name.”

  Pashani gave a scornful laugh. “She deserves no proper name. She is not ælven.”

  “Is the envoy still alive?” Jharan’s voice was steady, but anxiety showed in his eyes.

  Turisan nodded. “The last Kelevon knew, they were alive, held captive in the alben’s city, far to the west.”

  “They have a city?” Pashani’s eyes widened. “There were only a handful of them left after the Bitter Wars!”

  Turisan turned to her. “But that was twenty-seven centuries ago. Apparently, Shalár gathered that handful and kept them alive, and they have increased. Kelevon says the city rivals Highstone in size.”

  Pashani looked at Jharan. “Mayhap we shall have to cross the mountains and deal with this city.”

  “First we must deal with the kobalen at Midrange.” Jharan picked up a battered note from the table before him. “A courier arrived from our outpost there today. So far the kobalen have not moved to cross the mountains, but there is no telling how soon they will.”

  Turisan nodded. “Shalár may have som
ething to do with what is happening at Midrange. Kelevon said that he parted from her there.”

  Pashani turned to him, frowning. “Did he say what she was doing there?”

  “I did not ask, but I could question him again.”

  “No.”

  Jharan’s voice was hard. Turisan met his stern gaze.

  “You are not to go near him. You are a mindspeaker. If he has a sickness, you must not risk the contagion.”

  “I did not touch him. I gave him the blood in a cup—”

  “And you will not do it again!”

  Jharan’s eyes blazed with fresh anger. Turisan pressed his lips together and laid his hands against the polished whitewood of the council table, willing himself to be calm before he spoke again.

  “What do you intend to do with him, Father? Do you plan to release him?”

  “No!”

  “Then we must make provision for him.”

  All were still for a moment. Ehranan’s whisper broke the silence.

  “Shades on water!”

  Pashani leaned back in her chair. “Violators of the creed do not deserve its protection.”

  Turisan faced her. “I disagree. The creed is for our benefit as much as for that of—other beings. If we do not keep it faithfully, it does us no good.” He turned again to Jharan. “I think Kelevon will not need much blood, nor very often. The change in him was remarkable, even with half a cup. It might be best if he did not regain his full strength.”

  “Is that harming none?” Pashani’s voice was sly.

  “He may not find it comfortable to remain hungry, but it should do him no harm. We could try to capture a kobalen or two to feed him on, though they will be much farther north at this season.”

  “No!” Pashani smote the arm of her chair with a fist. “If we hold kobalen captive to feed that worm, we are no better than the alben, and the Bitter Wars were for nought!”

  “Then we must give him our own blood.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed. Berephan shifted in his chair. “I will contribute. And I will pass the word among the Guard for volunteers.”

  Jharan nodded slowly, his frown easing. “Very well. Give him as little as needed to keep him alive. Observe him closely.”